Curled in my lap,
I could almost forget
the effort
it cost you to get here.

Standing by my chair,
staring wistfully,
your chin dropped to the upholstery,
and you waited.

Then a paw,
scratching tentatively at the chair base,
another pause,
more staring.

Silent. Hopeful.

First one front paw up,
then two,
time to rest,

stretch,

more rest,
more stare.

At last the long-awaited
hop up,
and plop.

I would have helped you if I could,
but I’d have had to stand and take away the lap.
Then where would we be, my old dog?